


Loving You

by ClinicalChaos



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anniversary, Baking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Making Out, Power Outage, Seriously guys just so much fluff, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5610931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClinicalChaos/pseuds/ClinicalChaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis Bonnefoy has one goal: Prove his worth as the master of love and romance by creating the perfect anniversary for his lover, one Alfred F. Jones. So what if this might be the first anniversary he's ever celebrated? Francis will not be defeated.  </p><p>Too bad the weather has other ideas. However, relationships go both ways, and so do anniversary surprises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loving You

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially, this is just one warm pile of fluff. Enjoy, darlings, and don't be afraid to drop a comment!

The flower shop had been selected carefully. The store was an extension of a larger chain, located in the heart of town, but the sign outside advertised locally grown flowers. The cashier was kind, an older lady with a passion for flowers. Perfection assured without using big-brand cookie cutters. Not that Francis was opposed to big floral business, precisely – he had the numbers of no less than seven different international flower conglomerates on speed dial – but this was not the time to let detail slip.  

You see, Francis Bonnefoy had a plan. A plan that required flowers of no less than the highest caliber. An anniversary was a special occasion, even if Francis was dreadfully out of practice with such events. Eyes skimming over the bright collections of flora with soft criticism, Francis nodded to himself. He had made the right choice.

Francis couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with a nation for longer than a night. In fact, it was quite possible this would be his first anniversary in more ways than one. So much consideration had gone into his plans already; he refused to let anything mess them up.

You see, Francis Bonnefoy had a weakness. Some might say many weaknesses, ranging from shiny things to his adoration of his hair. However, Arthur Kirkland was the one who spat those bald-faced lies the most regularly, and Francis made a principle of ignoring anything that man said. No, Francis Bonnefoy, connoisseur of fine wine, artworks, and food, maestro of romance and lord of passion, had just one weakness: six foot one, loud, blond, and very much  _his_.

 _Suck it, Britain_ , Francis thought.

Paying for his roses (American Beauties, of course), Francis smiled to himself and got into his car. The wooing of Alfred F. Jones had been the pièce de résistance of Francis’ copious romantic jaunts. A compilation of his every other relationship, if you would. For Alfred, Francis had stopped sleeping around, chasing skirts, and even cut back on the wine. For Alfred, he’d tolerated Arthur’s taunting, Alistair’s needling, and the collective raised eyebrows of every nation Francis had ever had  _relations_ with. (Thank god Antonio and Gilbert had fallen into monogamy before he had, or the teasing would have been  _endless_ ). For Alfred, Francis had even tried such atrocities as deep fried butter, just to see the smile on Alfred’s face when he begrudgingly admitted it wasn’t terrible.

Besides, anything that put a smile like that on Alfred’s face couldn’t be all bad. Francis had survived wars on the memory of that smile. That smile stirred memories of waking up in his Paris apartment, in bed, and not the dingy bar he’d spent the first months after WWI passing out in. He’d remember being wrapped in a US Air Force jacket, warm for the first time since the summer of 1914. He would remember brushing his fingers along the soft fur collar, knowing he could keep the jacket if he pleased. Knowing that this was Alfred’s way of romance; all action, so blunt words weren’t needed. Francis would remember dragging himself from his self-imposed isolation to the Versailles Peace Conference for the express purpose of handing that jack back. The warm feeling in his heart as he’d watched Alfred’s face light up with a most adorable blush and the grin that would keep Francis fighting through WWII.

To this day, Francis made a habit of pulling the jacket on when Alfred wasn’t looking, claiming it was warmer than anything Francis owned. Alfred would laugh, twine an arm around Francis’ waist, and bury his face in the crook of Francis’ neck. As though showing a genuine smile in public was an offence.

Privately, Francis didn’t mind. Let the rest of the world see Hollywood splashed across Alfred’s face. Let them have the Barnum and Bailey in his eyes. Both were as cheap and saccharine as penny candies. Francis would keep all of Alfred’s authenticity for himself, let his lover have the safe place Francis never had at the height of his power. And if he could convince his love that there were more delectable desserts than deep-fried dairy products, then, well, that was a win for cultures everywhere.

Pulling up to the house Alfred had rented for the weekend (located in a tiny little town Francis had affectionately forgotten the name of), Francis locked up the car and made a B-line for the kitchen. Wherever they happened to be, a functioning kitchen was one criteria Francis insisted on. Now was the time to put that insistence to use before Alfred came back from fetching the firewood.

Yes, true, honest-to-God firewood. Francis felt vaguely like he was in rural 1910, but Alfred had been tickled to stumble across the wood-burning fireplace. There was, of course, electricity, but Alfred was not one to be dissuaded from an idea once one had bloomed.

(Francis had hardly tried very hard. After all, there was a lovely thick carpet in front of said fireplace to take advantage of, non?)    

Such pleasant thoughts dancing through his head like R-rated sugar plumbs, Francis deposited the flowers in a prepared vase and set to work. Tart tatin wasn’t hard, per say, but Francis would be damned before he let overconfidence cut him down. Slicing the apples, he mixed them in with the sugar and spices before sleeting to work on the pastry. As he popped the dish into the oven, he grinned. Alfred loved apple pie, no? Let’s see how he liked the French take.

Feeling satisfied and content, Francis curled up on the kitchen nook with a glass of wine. He was halfway through the glass when the first hint of exhaustion hit. He’d been up early shopping and perfecting his plans while Alfred finished up some work things. A small nap wouldn’t hurt, right? The alarm on the oven would wake him up.

* * *

 

Francis did not wake up to the alarm on the oven. In fact, it was quite dark when Francis woke. If he hadn’t recognized Alfred’s jacket thrown over him, Francis very well might have panicked. However, the soft fur on his skin and the smooth leather smell was familiar enough to keep him from thinking he’d stumbled into a nightmare. Standing, Francis slipped the jacket over his shoulders and looked around. When he felt for the light switch and nothing happened, he cursed. A power outage! Just what he needed. What a nightmare.

Feeling fed up, Francis didn’t even check the damn baked goods. What was the point? It was all spoiled now. “Alfred?” He called, knowing that Alfred must be home if Francis woke up with his jacket.

Sure enough, a face poked into the kitchen. “I guess sleeping beauty has woken,” Alfred grinned.

Francis sighed. “Oui, and he is sorry that nature has decided to throw a wrench in his anniversary plans.”

Alfred made a hushing noise, quickly crossing the kitchen to wrap Francis in his arms. “Nah, babe, it’s fine. I don’t need anything special so long’s you’re here.”

Had Francis been a more delicate person, he might have actually cried a little. Trust his attempt to make anniversary magic to blow up in his face. As it was, he merely burrowed into Alfred’s strong arms and let himself be held. “At least the roses are still in one piece,” Francis laughed after a moment.

Alfred grinned with him, a large, bright expression that warmed Francis’ heart. “And I have a little surprise in the living room, too.”

Knowing Alfred, that could mean anything from a vase of wildflowers to a gold-plated kitchen set. The second one had nearly happened at Christmas, but apparently Mathew had been able to persuade his twin that Francis would prefer a pair of diamond cufflinks. Thank God Mathew had picked-up Francis’ taste.

So, with perhaps a deserved amount of trepidation, Francis allowed himself to be shepherded into the living room.

He paused at the threshold, stunned.

Candles in vanilla and cinnamon filled every available surface. Francis’ roses sat on the mantle, with a vase of lilies (Francis’ favourites) on the other end. On the coffee table, an array of wine, cheese, chocolate, and fruit was spread out. Blankets and pillows filled the floor, creating a nest of comfort in front of the room’s main feature. That feature, of course, being the huge wood-burning fireplace Francis had laughed at on sight. Now, a welcome fire roared inside, heating the whole room and casting the space in comforting shadows.

Francis turned on his heel and pulled Alfred in for an overjoyed kiss. There was no domination in the kiss, no battles or fighting. Their mouths met easily, passionate for each other in the best of ways. Alfred’s hands roamed reverently over Francis’ chest, sneaking under the jacket to course along Francis’ arms. Francis answered by whining impatiently, wanting desperately to be skin to skin with his lover. When the kiss broke, it was so they could peel off their clothes.

And breathe, but that was secondary in their minds.

“This is beautiful,” Francis murmured, stripping off his shirt. He’d tossed Alfred’s jacket in the direction of the blankets. “How was I ever so lucky to have found you?”

Alfred laughed, pulling off his jeans. “Pretty sure it had something to do with pissing off Iggy.”

Francis hummed noncommittally. He took Alfred by the shoulders and pulled him down into the blanket nest. With appreciative eyes, he watched how Alfred glowed golden in the light of the fire. A hot, molten ache bloomed in his lower gut as Alfred allowed the manhandling. They both knew Alfred was devastatingly stronger. That he let Francis lead him,  _trusted_ Francis to lead him, was a gift in itself.

“Well,” Francis murmured, and dropped a breezy line of kisses from Alfred’s chest to hip. Alfred keened underneath him. “I guess I’m just going to have to take care of you until you forget my lackluster motivations.”

Alfred moaned, soft and wanting. Canting his hips, he drew Francis into another desperate kiss.

“I love you,” Alfred murmured as they parted. His eyes were blown wide, his voice slipping into a hazy southern drawl. “Love you so much, darlin’, you ain’t got no idea.”

“I do, Alfred,” Francis promised, moving to give his love some relief. Or just to drive him madder, if Alfred’s reaction was anything to go by. “I do, just as I know my love for you spans every ocean and every sky.”

Dipping his head, Francis poured sweet nothings into Alfred’s ear, as was one of his favorite past times. Alfred responded in kind, and together, they rocked in time by the light of the fire. Overjoyed by their closeness, Alfred’s jacket lay forgotten in a corner of the room.

Outside, a storm for the ages raged on. In the morning, the weatherman would call it the worst of the century for the area. Yet, Francis would remember having never felt warmer.


End file.
